Hangman
by APurpleAvacado
Summary: Oneshot. Au. A little exploration into what the brothers could have been before life in Hueco Mundo.


Author's note: I know, I know. I have a lot of other stories I should be working on, but I was suddenly struck with this idea and I just had to get it down. I do hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, if I did, well...half the characters would have more screen time and would be wearing a lot less clothes. The End.

One-shot;

Title: Hangman.

The decree: An officer of the law stood atop a grate wooden structure, almost a stage, but with one crucial difference. This was not an Actor's stage, but a criminal's last curtain call. The officer stood off to one side, well away from the noose that dangled freely from the pole that held it up. He held up a sheet of paper, declaring the crimes and punishment of a Michael Johnson for the theft of three pounds and pounds and two shillings as well as the murder of a Mister Charles Smith, Husband to his wife Amelia and Father to his two daughter's Sarah and Lucy. His voice was low, and booming. It carried over the surrounding area easily, being helped along by the wind as well. The year was 1815, and the crowds were already beginning to gather on the brisk morning for the execution that awaited them.

The noose swayed in the breeze, unassuming and all the more daunting for it. The gallows were built outside the local prison. Newgate, London. The city was waking and there was life in the air and in the breeze. The autumn was fading fast, and the chill was invigorating. Winter would be upon the country soon, and with it, more tests and trials, and likely, an increase in the number of crimes punishable by death. It was a good season for the common hangman. The poor suffered the most during any season, naturally, and when faced with cold and hunger, they were always the first to turn to desperate measures. Of course, stealing was as risky as murder.

The crowd was already assembled by the time the officer had finished his speech, and a young lad, no more then sixteen years of age was escorted out of the prison, greeted by jeers and hisses. Or was it the hangman they were sneering at? It made no matter. It was a familiar scene to the blond, whom was escorting the young man beside him, his long blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck, loose bands falling over burgundy eyes, a strand of which was caught in long blond lashes that contrasted sharply with the slightly tanned skin. Ilforte Grantz was a renowned Hangman and requested for his services up and down the country. Today he wore a white shirt, and cravat, tied into a bow at his neck, and a pair of black trousers, fitted neatly with perfectly polished shining black shoes. Over that of course, he wore a black waistcoat and a long-tailed black coat to fend off the cold.

Behind him, another man followed, along with a number of police officials as well as the warden of Newgate Prison. The man that followed was similarly dressed, with the exception of his waistcoat with was a fine, deep crimson. His pair was a pale, bizarre pink, rosy. It was cut short and combed back neatly, short bangs framing his face and leading to the glasses that perched on a fine, thin nose, framing bright amber eyes. This man, believe it or not, was Ilforte's Assistant Hangman as well as his younger brother. He was there to assist his brother once the actual hanging had been completed. He would be there to help move the body once he was pronounced well and truly dead. He would be there to help clean it and see it taken away by the Under-taker. He and his brother took quite a bit of personal pride in their work, and liked to see their charges through every step of their execution.

There was no showmen ship where Ilforte was concerned. He led Michael up onto the gallows, and did not even spare his brother a glance as he threw a sack over the boy's head. The least he could do for the convicted was give them a little dignity. Besides, it spared them the knowledge of knowing exactly when the trapdoor below his feet was going to be opened.

Wordlessly, he fitted the noose around the boy's neck and left his side, moving to a lever that controlled the mechanism of the trapdoor, and yanked it pointedly. The death was not instantaneous. Ilforte moved to stand beside his brother, and the pair watched as the convict struggled and kicked, with his hands tied behind his back to prevent any attempts to escape (as well as, in a way, the flailing). The crowd was incensed now, some cheering and others cursing the Hangman and some even lamenting the loss of the boy. Probably family, and friends.

Ilforte had no friends.

Only his brother.

It would be incorrect to say that Ilforte did not care for the institution of family or the security such familiarity breeds, but he loved his brother, and he was sure that his brother loved him. A man did not speak of such things, a man just knew when he was wanted and when he was loved. Growing up, Szayel Aporro had idolised him, but only for a while. Boys grew up and moved in their own way. The business of hanging was in their family, and in many ways the brother's had grown apart, and in this way, they had become closer than ever before. It was never an easy thing, to end a life, whether it be that of a convicted felon or an innocent child. In many ways, the morbid nature of hanging was similar to that of the world of medicine. At some point, someone had to decide when another had to die, when nothing else could be done to save them.

The brothers watched, both of whom were notorious for never once looking away. People accused them of enjoying suffering and death. It was just a job. Ilforte saw no use in trying to tell people that it was only respectful to watch the last moments of the man, or woman, that you yourself had doomed. Neither sibling smiled.

It was only when the body's movements began to cease that the crowd dwindled and began to thin out. But it was only when the body had been still for several minutes that it was finally released and taken to the morgue within the prison walls, where the two Hangmen would wash the body one last time before placing it in a coffin, ready for when the undertaker arrived. The brother's stayed on the premises until the body was taken away. Then, they would go home, take their dinner, and go to bed.

The brothers had lived in London all their lives, but their careers had been decided for them even before the thought of children entered their parent's lives. Their father had been a hangman, and his father before him, and so on for a number of generations, even if it was not always so. Their house, too, had been in their family for generations, and had been dubbed by the general public, none too creatively as the 'Hangman House'. It was detached, tall and proud, and a mark at least of the comfortable middle-class life in which the brother's lived. Although grim, their job paid well, as it would have to, if delivering punishment such as this was to be your life's work.

Their work was infrequent, although never a month went by in which one or both brothers were off working, in all corners of the country. The pair, over the years had built up quite a reputation, for professionalism as well as expertise. There were very few Hangmen in Briton however, as it was not exactly a desirable job, but that just meant that there was going to be more work and money available to the brothers. Never had there been a family unit such as theirs. Certainly, it was not unusual for a Hangman's work to be passed from father to son, but to have two brothers in the profession was unheard of. It could have been that most wanted to hire them to see the pair at work. But, what people saw both impressed and unnerved them.

Still, the years would roll by and the pair would have unrivalled success. They did not enjoy their work, but it put food on the table and it kept their family unit together. Neither man was willing to admit at this stage that they needed one another.

"What are you doing?" Ilforte asked, one winters evening as the pair sat in their drawing room, in front of a cosy fire upon great living chairs. Their home was sparsely decorated, as they never stayed in it too long, and figured that too many ornaments would be difficult to clean in they were away for an extended period of time. Szayel handled most of the cleaning, he had always been one for hygiene. Ilforte may have had a hand in traumatising the pink-haired man to a certain degree when they were only children. The younger man still checked his bed for cockroaches before he went to sleep at night, no matter where he was. Ilforte had also caused him to ruin his best clothes.

"Reading," was all Szayel had to say for himself, amber eyes flicking back and forth across a page in a file he had in his hands. Ilforte sipped his tea and lifted that morning's paper from the coffee table beside him. Although it was evening, Ilforte had not had time to rest until now. The paper contained an article about the hanging he had performed earlier that day.

Ilforte hummed for a moment, and there was a long pause before he was forced to ask "What, exactly?" curiosity had gotten the better of him, as it usually did.

The amber-eyed male did not answer immediately, and only looked up to respond to his brother's inquiry when he had turned the page, indicating that he had been in the process of finishing the last passage on the page. "The case files of your charge."

The blond frowned "What for?"

"No reason."

"How did you get it?" After all, only the police should have been privy to the more intimate details of his charge's case.

"I have my ways." Of course he did, Ilforte thought, Szayel could be as Wilily as a fox when he wanted to be.

Another night, several months later, would find the pair in a similar situation, but this time, his only comment was "I hanged an innocent man today."

Ilforte did not respond.

Soon enough, Ilforte began to notice, when he was around, that Szayel was becoming more and more withdrawn, which he found impressive, simply because the pair of them rarely seemed to speak to one another as it was. They lived in each other's lives and worked around or with one another every day. What could one say to someone so close? Ilforte new each and every detail of his brother's day when they were together, and Szayel Aporro knew his. What they did not know, they often found out in newspapers, which would often spark up conversation.

Yet, not even that would be worth a word to the pink-haired man.

The pair were as different as chalk and cheese, and neither was under any illusion they were anything but night and day, so they found it difficult to speak of anything other than work. Ilforte could talk about gambling at the local Dog Races, and Szayel would respond with something about researches believing that inbred dogs were useless and born with all kinds of genetic defects, and that it seemed to be much the case with man-kind, not that anyone seemed to acknowledge the fact. Ilforte would pretend to understand and/or care for all of five seconds before he began to speak of work once more. The one topic they could relate to.

Despite his gentle enquiries, Ilforte could coax little more out of his brother than what seemed to be considered the 'safe' topics. It seemed to Ilforte, that Szayel was beginning to ramble a lot more than he had before, and that rambling had absolutely nothing to so with work.

Late one night, Ilforte woke with a start. There was cold sweat on his brow and he was panting softly, his heart thumping. The blond was often plagued with nightmares, most of which pertained to his job, but some dream, like the one that had woken him, starred his little brother. He couldn't get the younger man's laughter out of his mind, even after several minutes of sitting in the silence of his dark room. He hadn't heard his brother laugh in years.

It wasn't long before the blond threw the blanket off his legs and shifted, resting his feet on the floor as he groped blindly for the drawer of his bedside table, within which lay a box of matches. One he found the box, he quickly struck a matched and watched for a moment as the flame flickered to life, steadily, before he moved to light a candle at his bedside table. Once lit, he waved the match until the flame disappeared, any lay it down on the table before he stood in order to retreat his bed robes, slipping it over his shoulder and tying a knot around his waist before he picked up the candle and headed for the kitchen.

It was late, and of course, Ilforte had forgotten to take a glass of water up to bed with him before he called it a night. He crept downstairs, thinking that he was avoiding disturbing his brother's sleep, only to find that there was the flicker of candlelight in the location for which he was headed. The kitchen. With a small frown, Ilforte sighed and rubbed some of the tiredness out of his eyes as he made his way into the kitchen.

As he suspected, Szayel was still awake, sitting at the kitchen table, where the pair took their breakfast, which his nose buried deep in several files. Case files, no doubt. The younger man had steadily been bringing more and more of them into their home, and the thought discomforted the blond.

"Szayel."

The man in question jumped slightly at the sound of his name, and turned, to regard his brother, whose hair was loose and mused with sleep. Szayel's hair was as meticulous as it had been before the blond went to bed. He hadn't slept. "What are you doing up?" The pink-haired man asked.

Burgundy eyes narrowed slightly as Ilforte moved forwards to take a seat at the kitchen table, placing his table on the table in front of him "I could ask you the same." He said simply.

"Reading." Szayel responded.

"I see that."

"Then why did you ask?" Szayel retorted a little impatiently. Lack of sleep had never done Szayel's already challenging disposition any good.

Scowling slightly, Ilforte jumped to his feet, snatching up the various files in front of his brother, ignoring the other's cry of protest, and moved over to a small pot, in which a number of keys were kept. After retrieving the correct key, thankfully avoiding his brother's groping hands, as he slipped out of the way quickly. Szayel wanted the files back it seemed. "This isn't healthy." He told Szayel, opening the draw of a side table in the hallways outside the kitchen, before dumping the files in and locking them up before the younger man could get at them. "You need to stop!"

Ilforte wasn't one to intrude on his brother's business, but the blond always took it as a bad sign when he did. Szayel scowled and shoved at Ilforte, trying to retrieve the key held firmly in his brother's grasp "Give it back!"

"No." Ilforte replied, taking several steps back.

"Ilforte, stop it, you need to give it back!" Szayel continued to protest, this time, launching himself at his brother, and knocking the both of them to the ground. There was a struggle, but only a brief one. Ilforte had always been physically stronger than Szayel, although even Szayel had a hidden kind of strength in him sometimes. "Ilforte..!" The pink-haired man shouted, as he lay on his back.

His brother was holding his hands firmly against the floor as he straddled the younger man, preventing any further movement "Give me one good reason why I should let you have them!" He barked at his sibling. It was one question of many Ilforte wished he could ask, but now was not the time.

"The police are wrong!"

The months went by and for a while, it seemed like Szayel had ceased trying to obtain the case files for each of the convict they were condemned to exact justice upon. For a while, it seemed like everything had gone back to normal. His brother had calmed down, and had gone back to work shortly after with no complaints. The brothers were on form again.

The files remained locked away.

Still, with time, old habits arose. Ilforte had lapsed into a state of normalcy, a state which his younger sibling took advantage of. They spoke of normal things, work, new rope, their next jobs. They would plan the upkeep of the house, and whom was to do what once they returned. Neither man saw the point in hiring a maid, although they knew they could.

Silently, both agreed that such a thing would be an intrusion, and the brothers valued their privacy.

In their home, if a subject was not brought it, it did not warrant discussing, and as such, there was and never will be, a maid.

Still, they worked, came home, ate, spoke and slept and all seemed well. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and frankly, Ilforte enjoyed that aspect of things most of all.

Until something peculiar happened.

Szayel smiled.

It soon became apparent that the files were no longer safe, and in fact, had disappeared. That of course, had soured Ilforte's day and was the source of many an argument between the brothers. Ilforte never enjoyed arguing with his brother, toying with him, yes, taunting him, yes. But arguing was not something one did with someone you loved.

Ilforte loved his brother.

Szayel was the only family the blond had, the only family that understood. It was the reason they had both remained in their profession for so long. They could rely on each other to know exactly what was going through each other's minds without anything being said. Their job was not easy, and that was a fact that could never be stressed enough. Even so, there was only been one occasion in which Ilforte found himself falling into his brother's arms. Many years prior, Ilforte remembered, when he was new to the family line of work, he had cried.

It had been the first time he'd hanged a woman.

Szayel never cried, although he had often, in the beginning, sought to hold Ilforte's hand surreptitiously as they stood beside one another of the gallows, watching their charge choke and flail. Szayel soon grew used to it, and seemed fascinated by the bodies that the pair took care of after all was said and done. His brother had always had a curious mind, as if he could never know too much. Ilforte wanted to support him in that, although he did not particularly see the need for such a time-consuming hobby. Although, that is not to say Ilforte did not read; he was simply more interested in works of fiction as opposed to his brother, who sought fact after fact after fact.

Still it was not long before Szayel grew more and more open about the fact that he was once again bringing those case files into their home once more.

"Did you know," Szayel began one morning over breakfast, clutching one of the many files that Ilforte had long ago ceased arguing over "That over the course of last year you condemned thirteen innocents to die?" He asked, which suddenly made the toast and jam in Ilforte's mouth to turn to rot.

He chewed for a moment and forced himself to swallow before clearing his throat "How could you possibly know that." Ilforte asked, as if he never expected an answer.

"Because, dear brother." Szayel started, which Ilforte found thoroughly bizarre. Szayel never referred to Ilforte in such a manner, and hadn't since Szayel was six years of age "The police got their facts wrong." He explained "...well. That is to say, they were the correct facts, drawn to the wrong conclusion."

The blond just hummed softly in thought. He was in no mood to humour his brother and swell on the past "What's done is done, Szayel." He stated a mantra of which the brothers were very familiar "Never mind the fact that thirteen is a very unlucky number." He attempted to joke.

Szayel did not laugh. "Ask me."

Ilforte knew the question without even needing a hint as to what the pink-haired man desired the blond to know "How many did you kill?"

"fourteen."

Twenty-seven innocents between them in one year alone, was what Szayel left hanging in the air.

"I told you it wasn't healthy." Was all Ilforte could think to say.

Healthy or not, Szayel continued to go over the records of their previous jobs. Szayel had always been smart, Ilforte knew, much smarter than the blond himself, although he would never admit it. He could see his brother steadily become more and more obsessed with numbers and figures and factors. He wanted to shake his brother hard, maybe knock some sense into him. He could see Szayel's workload dwindling. He was at home more often, taking up less jobs. Ilforte would often hear the pink-haired man fretting at night, preying he was doing the right thing, getting the right man, or the right woman.

Szayel didn't much care for the gender of their charge, but he obsessed over their potential innocence.

Ilforte had long ago given up thinking on such things, and he had thought Szayel had learnt to do the same, but it seems Szayel's natural curiosity was much stronger than his own. The blond could see Szayel was suffering because of it, but the younger man was stubborn and was never likely to listen to Ilforte if he believed himself absolutely right. Szayel never listened to anyone, really.

His brother took great pride in his appearance, he knew, and it was shocking to see as the months went by that his pink locks were growing further and further out, a fact which normally would have bothered the younger man, Ilforte was certain. It was strange, sitting up and watching Szayel at night, reading away, muttering to himself and calculating and counting this and that.

Szayel no longer worked.

It was when Szayel started laughing that Ilforte decided it was time to act.

He had them come at night, when he had made sure Szayel would be sleeping. He had drugged his brother, not wanting him to make a fuss. The blond watched as his new handler's dressed him in a straight-jacket and put him into the back of their car, which was barred on every window. It was not a reassuring sight.

Still, Bedlum Asylum would take care of his brother, and the blond would visit, he would make sure of that. It was just a question of whether or not Szayel would want him there that would be the main concern, of course, most people left their relatives for good and all in those places, unless there was a chance for recovery. Perhaps all Szayel needed was a break, no newspapers, to work, no reading, nothing. Some isolation, relaxation. Maybe...

He would visit Szayel.

For the next couple of weeks, work would get in the way of the promised visit, although he never said it aloud. Then, upon returning, Ilforte's promised would be fulfilled tomorrow, or the day after that, or the next day. The next week. He knew he would have to face his brother eventually, although he had received no news of the amber-eyed man's condition, improved or not. Ilforte would not be surprised if there were no changes at all.

He had seen Szayel's obsession fester and grow and mould and change and develop into something so much more than a simply hobby or desire to know just _what_ they were doing.

It would be another month before Ilforte decided that finally he would go and see his brother. His house was much too empty, lacking in the life that had been there, however subdued it had been. He had someone to talk to before he sent Szayel away, and he almost regretted it.

Ilforte had been talking to a woman lately. She seemed nice, a very gentle woman, the kind of woman that mad you want to settle down and marry. The only trouble was...

He couldn't look at her without seeing the kicking of feminine feet and the twitching of delicate toes. He would have loved to talk to Szayel about her.

When the day came to see Szayel, Ilforte was not expecting what he saw at all. Bedlum was not quite all it had seemed, although each attendant assured him that what was happening to Szayel was all standard practice. For the most part, they said, Szayel Aporro was quiet. He never cried, never screamed and rarely protested to treatment.

He often laughed to himself though, as thought as a joke that no one else was privy to.

At least, they said, he was not hearing voices. Although it would not be said that that was a step on the path to recovery, it certainly meant, in the eyes of the doctors and medical staff, that he was more likely to go back to his old self much sooner than others, if at all. Sad as it was to saw, most patients died or were reclaimed by their families, fully recovered or not.

Ilforte simply hoped that Szayel would not become one of those statistics that he loved so much.

The first time he visited, Ilforte did not attempt to enter Szayel's cell, despite how much he wished to speak to the younger man. He was separated from his brother by a thick, heavily bolted wooden door with a flap at the foot of it so that food could be passed into the cell with ease. The blond could see through a small barred window in the door, watching Szayel as he stood at the window of his room (also barred) and stared, muttering to himself, counting, it seemed.

He wore a pale blue patient's dress. His hair had grown, pink tresses resting at the crook of his pale slim neck. Too thin. Ilforte couldn't help but ask what they fed him and how often. They said, they fed the well-behaved patience, and always fed them what they could not hurt themselves on. It was not a wise idea to give a patient a knife, after all. Porridge seemed suitable most of the time.

Slowly, Ilforte's visits became more and more frequent, but he rarely let his brother know he was there. He did not want to be the subject of his brother's distress, which he no doubt was. He knew Szayel could hold a grudge.

Over the coming weeks, and months, Ilforte would watch his brother, talk to him sometimes, as his hair grew longer and his words a little colder. Soon, Szayel could stand to be in the same room as his brother once again, although he was never pleased about it when he did.

"What have you been doing?" Szayel asked one day, amber eyed narrowed slightly.

"Reading," Ilforte replied.

It was true. Ilforte had found the many files that Szayel had been harbouring, and flicked through them, shifting through the countless notes that Szayel had left. It was hard to believe what his brother saw, what he was capable of deducing. I had taken him several days to read all the files, and several hours marvelling over the fact that his brother had spent so much more time analysing all of their past cases. It was no wonder he went mad, Ilforte concluded.

No doubt the younger man thought that what they were doing was glorified murder, and no doubt it was, but Ilforte took solace in one thing, and one thing alone: What's done is done. Let it never be said that Szayel could simply let things lie. In their younger years, Szayel Aporro could have stayed up all day and all night reading a book if he wanted to, always neglecting to eat. He hated being pulled away from the things he enjoyed most.

Still, it was no small feat how Szayel had come to all his knowledge of what he suspected had truly transpired. Still. He knew Szayel was absolutely determined that he was correct, despite Ilforte's many attempts to convince him otherwise.

Ilforte knew however, that no one was perfect.

He wanted nothing more than to believe that Szayel was wrong, at least sometimes, that way, his little brother might be able to calm down and accept that not everything was his fault, that no one could know what truly happened simply by looking at a piece of paper. There were variables involved that a simple document could not or did not record.

He wanted Szayel to accept that being wrong about one thing, meant he could be wrong about another. Maybe then, Szayel could see that he was making a horrible mistake.

But, Szayel had always been smarter than Ilforte.

Always.

What a day it was when last Ilforte went to see his brother. It was a warm summers day, and on a day much like this one, yesterday in fact, Ilforte had hanged a man in Kent, for murder. It had taken a whole day before he was able to return home once more.

The blond had been a little bit apprehensive about his visit, given that he had thought he would have missed it due to his work. Of course, he decided a week prior to cancel the appointment he had previously had booked for that morning, to allow the prison to find a suitable replacement for him. He would not work today. Today, he was here for his brother. Szayel had asked him to come, for once, and given that the younger man never asked him for anything, Ilforte felt obliged to agree.

After becoming such a frequent visitor, and familiarising himself with the staff that worked in the asylum, Ilforte had skipped man a security check, which played in his favour over time. Once he had brought Szayel a book, which the pink-haired man had to throw of of the window upon it's completion (which he was loathe to do), so that neither he nor Ilforte would be caught breaking the rules.

Szayel still laughed, but at least now, he and Ilforte had a little secret to share.

That day however, when Ilforte was left alone with Szayel in his cell, Szayel was shocked out of his musings by a very sudden embrace. He let out a shuddering breath at the long-forgotten warmth that belonged to his brother.

Szayel did not cry.

"I love you," Ilforte whispered into Szayel's ear, who could only clutch at the blond, unable to think of a response "Very much." Ilforte continued.

Szayel smiled. He wanted to laugh.

He knew immediately what the blond before him planned to do. Ilforte never confessed any sort of emotional attachment to anyone, unless he was pressed to do so. Szayel remembered their mother prompting Ilforte to apologise and say he loved Szayel often. So, he knew, when he heard those words, that finally something was going to be done.

"Thank you," Szayel responded "dearest brother."

Amber eyes closed slowly when Szayel felt Ilforte shift and place something in the palm of his hand. It was only then that they pulled back, and took a step apart from one another. Ilforte didn't know exactly why Szayel wanted to end his life, but, just visiting Bedlum sent dread into the pit of his stomach, and could not bear to imagine what living there must have been like. Still. There was an awkward pause, and the blond resisted the urge to just _touch_ his brother one last time, to hold his hand.

But that never happened.

He simply turned, bowed his head in a parting gesture and left the cell, left the corridor, and left Bedlum behind for good.

Even with all of his experience, Ilforte's hand still shook as he tied his own noose, standing upon a chair and looping it around his neck. Although he promised he would not do this, to say good by to his only family was harder then he had initially thought. He loved his brother, very much; and as he kicked the chair out from under him, the short drop was enough to send the blond choking and gasping, ripping at the noose, wishing for a moment, that he had not done what he had done.

He wished there was no longer a rope around his neck.

He wished he had not allowed Szayel to poison himself.

He wished desperately never to have sent Szayel away at all.

Then, suddenly, the panic dissipated. His mind was still a whirlwind of thought, but one thing that stood out in Ilforte's last moments, and it calmed him, to an extent.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

Being right was just a little too much for Szayel to take.

**((A/N: Well. I hope you enjoyed it. This idea came to me fairly suddenly, and I just had to get it down, so I'm deeply sorry if any of you are familiar with and wish to beat me about the head with a baguette for failing to update my other stuff, but this had to be done.**

**It's an AU of sorts, I suppose. I wanted to explore what Ilforte and Szayel could have been before they became Hollows. I really hope I got my point across. I know, I seemed to emphasise the amount of love Ilforte had for Szayel, but otherwise, how were they going to wind up in Hueco Mundo together, right? Ha ha. Uh...**

**I thought being Hangmen would be a good way to descend into madness, as well as portray the brother's somewhat cold dispositions. Again, Ilforte and the love thing. It really was just familial (or was it? -wigglewiggle-) Because of the lack of time to give his character any depth, I figured Ilforte to be somewhat arrogant, cold and indifferent, and although he and Szayel never interact, my headcanon says that both of them have a strained relationship with one another at best, and cannot express any form of affection, whether they want to or not, for fear of being taken advantage of.**

**Anyway...yeah. Uhm. Your thoughts?))**


End file.
